


6/10

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, Sort of Kind of, Soulless Sam Winchester, Unresolved Tension, Vomiting, it's yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: Sam wished, as he stared dizzily at the asphalt, that he could've handled this himself-- or at least been given a chance to do so. And he was confused at Dean's eagerness to look after him; not so long ago, Dean had been the one laying some pretty hard punches to his face. Sam wasn't forgetful of how he used to be, and held held all his memories of Dean, too. Dean had never been one to change his tune so quickly, not even when it was about his little brother.That made Sam wary. Being at Dean's mercy like this didn't feel as safe as it did before.Or: Sam is soulless, and sick.





	6/10

**Author's Note:**

> it's been 4 months, this was an even longer draught than last year, my life has fallen apart, super sorry,,  
> anyways i've never written soulless!sam before and i thought it would be interesting, so here's this  
> beta'd! but something is fucked with the formatting so if there are weird spaces where there shouldn't be, my bad  
> title is a song by Dodie, it's v good, i know it's a weird title choice but i'll explain it if anyone asks

Sam was quiet in the car.

Eyes closed, slouched down in his seat with his head tilted back, the strong curve of his jaw catching the light of passing streetlights. His chest rose and fell with deep, rapid breaths. Sweat beaded on his forehead. 

"Hey." 

Dean reached over, nudged his not-brother's shoulder. Sam stirred. 

"What's wrong with you?" 

"Thought we had that conversation already," Sam mumbled in a tone that was unfamiliar to Dean.  But Sam was rubbing the sleep from his eyes in such a childlike way that was so  _undeniably_ Sam, that Dean couldn't help but feel undone by heartache. 

"I meant what's wrong now?"  Dean spared a glance from the road and reached for Sam's forehead, feeling the radiating warmth there before Sam could bat his hand away. "You sick?" 

"'M fine." Sam's eyes trained on the world outside the passenger window. If it weren't for the awful pallor of his face, he would have had Dean convinced. "Keep driving." 

Dean wasn't in the mood to argue and Sam was even more stubborn _without_ a soul than he was _with_ one, so he let it drop and returned his focus to the road. 

Ten miles down, Sam sat up in his seat, one hand braced against the dashboard and the other hovering by Dean's shoulder-- afraid to touch, unsure if it  was allowed. "Could you pull over?" 

Dean looked concerned, but it was hard, given the circumstances, to decipher whether it was for someone he  barely  considered to be Sam or for the Impala's leather upholstery. "We're on the freeway man, I can't. Can you, like... hold it in?" 

Sam glared at him through his vertigo. 

"Yeah, not the best question," Dean admitted. "Uh, okay, okay-- the stuff I got at the gas station, it's in a plastic bag. Back seat." 

Sam turned on his side with a repressed groan and felt around, his fingers finding the bag and clutching it, dumping the contents onto the floorboards. Once the bag was empty, he righted himself in his seat and almost immediately doubled over with a retch. 

"Holy shit," Dean muttered. His knuckles were as white as Sam's face where they locked around the steering wheel. 

Sam stayed hunched over the bag, holding it open in his lap. "Dean--" 

Fuck, that was his Sam. 

"I'll find us a motel." Dean's gut twisted when Sam gagged again. "Soul or not, you can't hunt like this." 

Sam responded with a wet belch that he tried to muffle with his palm. 

"The old Sam," he gulped, "he wouldn't puke in your car." 

"He'd make sure not to get it on the seats," Dean corrected.  Despite his wariness and distrust of this new un-Sam riding shotgun, he let one hand slip off the wheel and rest on Sam's spine . "You get it up, 'kay? You're sick, it's alright." 

Sam swallowed hard and retched again, this time bringing up a dribble of saliva that clung to his lower lip.  Dean was thankful for the distraction of the road as he heard the unmistakeable sound of liquid hitting plastic. 

"There you go, that's it," Dean held onto Sam's shoulder with a reassuring grip. "You're good." 

Sam continued to vomit and gag while Dean took an exit ramp into the nearest town and hunted down the closest motel. He pulled into the parking lot, turned off the car, and went to get their bags from the backseat. 

"I'm gonna check us in, you can  just\-- hey, hey--" 

Sam had his door open and was halfway out of the car on trembling legs. Dean dropped the duffels and rushed over before Sam could make it any farther, easing him back into his seat. 

"I'm coming  _with_ ," Sam said. 

"You're staying  _put_ ," Dean ordered, matching Sam's petulant tone. "I'll come get you when I've got the room."  Dean tried not to grimace at the awful state Sam was in; his face was a chalky white, he  was coated  in sweat, and he was shaking so hard he could register on the Richter scale. 

"Want some air," Sam protested. He clung to Dean's jacket with clammy hands. "And I gotta throw out the bag." 

Dean eyed it sitting on the floor of the passenger seat, handles tied in a loose knot to keep it from spilling over to one side. Even in his disgust, his fraternal instincts were yanking on him from the inside. 

"Don't worry about the bag, I got it."  He reached past Sam and tried not to lose his own lunch at the way the bag  audibly  sloshed when he picked it up, laid eyes on what might have been a heavenly blessing in the form of a nearby public garbage can, and threw it away. He hadn't had to do something like that in a while, and never with a Sam who wasn't all Sam; he was a little out of practice.

"You stay out here on the curb," Dean said. "Don't need you scaring the poor guy who runs this place." At Sam's expression, he added, "Not 'cause you're soulless, jackass. 'Cause you look like Death himself." 

Sam got back to his feet on wobbling knees. "I can help with the duffels, though--" 

"No, Sam." Dean's tone was less angry than Sam had anticipated. Gentler. Like in his illness he'd somehow filled that old-Sam void that Dean was suffering from. "I got it. You sit down, take a breather. Puke into the street if you gotta." 

For all his stubbornness, Sam didn't feel much like standing any longer. He plopped down on the edge of the curb and rested his head against the side of the Impala's hood.  Dean slung the duffels over his shoulder, promised to be back before Sam knew it, and then Sam was alone with only the nausea churning in his stomach to keep him company. 

Sam wished, as he stared  dizzily  at the asphalt, that he could've handled this himself-- or at least  been given  a chance to do so.  And he  was confused  at Dean's eagerness to look after him; not so long ago, Dean had been the one laying some pretty hard punches to his face. Sam wasn't forgetful of how he used to be, and held all his memories of Dean, too. Dean had never been one to change his tune so  quickly, not even when it was about his little brother. 

That made Sam wary. Being at Dean's mercy like this didn't feel as safe as it did before. 

\-- 

In the hotel room after Sam changed out of his sweat-soaked clothes, Dean set him up in one of the beds with his laptop and the ice bucket.  Sam curled up under the blankets, shivering, and watched Dean stock the mini fridge with stomach-flu provisions. 

"We had that stuff in the car?"  Sam asked, positive that Dean hadn't picked up those things on their supply run earlier, and almost certain he wasn't blanking out on anything. These days, Sam's mind was sharper than ever. 

"Always keep an emergency bag," Dean replied. "This is the first time I've had to use it." 

"You used to leave me on my own to get fresh supplies," Sam recalled. "What makes this time different?" 

Dean looked at him for a few seconds too long, and Sam decided he didn't  really  want Dean to answer. 

"Right," he muttered. "Almost forgot."

"Sam--"

"I'm gonna get some rest." Sam turned over to face the wall and forced his eyes shut.

"I thought you didn't need to sleep." 

"Do us both a favor and fuck off, Dean." 

It was quiet between the two of them after that. 

\--

When Sam awoke, it was to a darkened room, the soft hazy light of the television, and a relapse of the nausea he'd felt in the car.  He kicked the blankets off of him and rolled onto his side, groping for the ice bucket on the floor and finding it in time to retch  emptily  into it. 

This, of course, caught Dean's attention-- which had previously been latched onto an episode of Frasier. 

"Sam?" 

"Yeah," Sam managed before gagging again. "Were you expecting someone else?" 

Some _thing_  else,  maybe. 

Even soulless, Sam could tell when he was a disappointment. And it hurt the same. 

Dean left the television on but came to sit beside Sam-- his almost-Sammy, his un-brother, his close-enough-to-blood-- and there was an emptiness in Sam that had nothing to do with his lack of soul. 

"You okay?" Dean's palm was on Sam's forehead, rough and calloused and supportive the same way a thin sheet of ice was. 

Sam would later understand that he was feeling fear, but for now he could only call it awareness; the looming knowledge that the dark frigid water was right there, waiting for him behind Dean's centimeters of tolerance. 

Sam said yeah, he was fine, because he had no other option. He knew what would happen if he became more trouble than he was worth, and he couldn't risk  being left  on his own.  He didn't want to be bad, didn't  want to hurt anyone, and with the way Dean acted around him it seemed like sticking together was the only way to keep himself pointed north. He didn't trust himself alone. 

"You look like hell, man."

Sam nodded because Dean was  probably  right. "Must've rubbed off on me during my field trip there."

Dean cracked a smile, and a small trickle of pride drained into the space where Sam's soul should have been, but it was gone as fast as it had come. Sam would've done anything to regain that sense of belonging.

"Here."  Dean set the ice bucket in Sam's lap, squeezed his shoulder for a brief moment, and turned on the beside lamp so he could find his way to the mini fridge. "You want Gatorade or water?" 

Sam rested his head on the rim of the bucket and choked up a stream of bile. "God, neither." 

"Tough nuts."  Dean returned with the sports drink and waited for Sam to finish dry-heaving before unscrewing the cap and handing it to him. "It's blue. You liked that flavor best." 

"I still do," Sam reminded him  quietly, half heart-warmed that Dean had taken this detail into consideration when packing the emergency bag, and half heartbroken at Dean's habit of referring to him as nothing more than a memory. 

He drank the Gatorade even though he still felt sick, because if there was one thing he could try and do, it was pleasing Dean.  And when it all came back up  violently  a little while later, leaving him shivering and dripping in sweat, he let Dean hold the ice bucket for him and wipe him down with a washcloth because that's what Dean wanted to do. 

That didn't stop him from asking a question that had been gnawing at him ever since Dean had thrown out his puke bag that afternoon in the parking lot. 

"Why're you doing this?" 

Dean hesitated longer than Sam was alright with. 

"I mean... it's sorta what I do."  Dean looked as confused with himself as Sam was, as if he'd been operating on autopilot for the entire day and was only now understanding who he'd been caring for. But he didn't seem all too bothered. "Whether  all of  you is here or not, you know? This whole soulless thing ain't exactly in my wheelhouse, and it scares the hell outta me, if I'm honest. But taking care of you, and cleaning up when you puke, and keeping your fever down... I can do those things. I like doing 'em." 

Sam, for his razor-sharp intelligence, was completely lost. "But you don't think I'm me." 

"You got a damn important piece missing, yeah." Dean reached out and fixed a loose strand of Sam's hair. "But that doesn't mean I'm not gonna look out for the rest of you." 

Dean touched Sam's forehead again, then pressed his lips there. 

"Still got a fever," he said. "Try and rest some more. I'll turn down the TV if you need." 

Sam shook his head, no less perplexed than he had been, but a little more secure. Like the ice underneath him had grown a couple inches thicker. He set the bucket on the floor and wormed back under the blankets until they were up to his eyes. 

"Thank you," he said. His voice  was muffled  from the sheets, but Dean heard him fine.

"Anytime, Sammy."

Except Sam knew 'anytime' had an  expiration  date, and Sam had an awful suspicion that that was Dean's reason for doing this  . There was a promise of spring in the form of his battered soul  being yanked  out of the Cage. The ice was going to thaw one way or another, and he knew Dean knew it, too.

Sam welcomed sleep in exchange for the heavy dread weighing in the subspace inside him. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _I know that you don't want me here_  
>  _I know that you don't want me here_  
>  _I know that you don't want me here_  
>  _I know that you don't want me here_  
>   
> 
> (I'm on tumblr, my username is now sxldati, feel free to come hang out and leave requests!)


End file.
